


Broken- A Treebros Fanfiction

by Amarie_chan312



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Connie's got a lot of internalized transphobia, Evelyn is pan, F/F, Transphobia, connie is bi, don't like it don't read it, genderbent Evan, references to past suicide attempts, trans! genderbent Connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29827245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarie_chan312/pseuds/Amarie_chan312
Summary: "“I’m Connor,” he introduces, like I don’t know that he’s sad more than he’s anything else, like I don’t know that his brain and his soul are both broken, just like mine."Evelyn Hansen is people-allergic.Connor Murphy is trapped.When a fateful friendship is formed, will they be able to break down their barriers and live the life they truly want, or are they destined to stay as they are?
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Kudos: 3





	Broken- A Treebros Fanfiction

Evelyn  
I rush to class as I hear the warning bell, knowing Mr. Stuart will probably kill me if I’m late. Even if he wouldn’t, the glares would, because one of many universally known facts is that, out of all the nerve-racking things on the planet, the most nerve-racking one is being late to homeroom. 

I spew into Mr. Stuart’s English class and take my customary seat in the back row (so I don’t get called on) right before the final bell rings. Attendance is taken and we start. I almost instantly zone out, focusing on the other students instead of Shakespeare. To my left is Connor Murphy, looking stoned (per usual) but listening to Mr. Stuart’s lecture with rapt attention (also per usual). 

Is it strange to think you know everything about someone before you even talk to them? Because that’s how I feel about Connor. 

Here’s what I know:   
He has a younger sister, Zoe, one year younger, no other siblings (that I know of)   
We’re in the same English and World History classes. He loves English; History, not so much.   
He always looks like he’s in mourning: bloodshot eyes, all black clothes, vacant look.   
Sometimes, he goes nuclear: shoving desks, fighting people, storming out of class, but usually, he just seems… sad. And tired. 

I know I said focusing on students, but I meant one student. I spend so much time observing Connor that I think it’s starting to swallow my life whole. Not like there was much life to start with. I have no friends, no hobbies, and only one parent, who’s too busy working to spend time with me. I’ve spent the last month and a half trying to get myself to talk to Connor, but I just… can’t. In that time frame, Connor has gone nuclear nine times (I counted), and I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll be the next victim. Dr. Longsworth would tell me to take chances and stop being so afraid of the world, but it’s never that easy. It’s like I’m allergic to the idea of talking to people. Whenever I think about it, my hands start to shake and I get all sweaty and suddenly I don’t know what to do with my body, and the only thing I can think is “I can’t do that. Ever.” 

So here I am, staring at Connor but refusing to talk to him.

Life sucks. 

Connor  
Mr. Stuart is talking about Hamlet, which I read for the first time practically in infancy, but for some reason, I’m still listening as if my life depends on it. I’m also high as a fucking kite (school coping skill number one), so my head’s all blurry and messed up, but I deal. I tune all the noise except the teacher’s voice out as I listen to an explanation of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, listening until I can’t even hear my thoughts, listening until my everything is just Hamlet’s suicidal musings. 

This is why English is the only class I can stand. It makes life feel real again, like it’s not just some sick joke everyone started playing on me when I turned thirteen.  
Like something matters again. 

Evelyn  
The bell rings, and everyone shuffles out. I grab my English notebook and binder, stealing one last look at Connor before I leave, going on autopilot as I enter the hallway, head swimming. 

It’s like that all through second and third hour, along with lunch, and then it’s time for World History. I walk in and sit in the back (again), stupidly hoping I’m next to Connor for the next 55 minutes. Mrs. Lavoie said we’d be doing a project with the people who sat next to us today and I’m an idiot who thinks all I need is Connor doing a project with me to be able to talk to him. I watch as he enters the room and (yes!) walks to the seat next to mine and sits down. Mrs. Lavoie explains our project, something about World War II, but I don’t care, because it’s happening, I have a chance to make a friend, a chance to finally stop being this person-allergic girl I’ve been since I was twelve, a chance to be normal again. 

“Hey. Evelyn, right?” Connor scoots his chair over to my desk, bringing his pencil and notebook. 

I nod, conveniently going mute. 

“I’m Connor,” he introduces like I haven’t been watching him for two months, like I don’t know how he chews on his pen caps and what his favorite book is (The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde), like I don’t know he has the same thing for lunch every day (blue raspberry slushie, pepperoni pizza, green apple), like I don’t know that he’s sad more than he’s anything else, like I don’t know that his brain and his soul are both broken, just like mine. 

“So, the project. The final presentation is oral, so… who’s going to present?” he asks. 

I squeak, like an idiot. I somehow managed to block out the fact that this was an oral presentation. Connor probably thinks I’m crazy. 

“I’ll do it if you can’t,” he offers. 

I breathe a sigh of relief and nod. “O-Okay,” I say. 

Connor smiles. “She speaks,” he jokes. “Want to, uh, exchange numbers? That way, maybe we could meet out of school to work.” 

I nod again and write my phone number down on a piece of paper, successfully hiding my excitement. I’ve managed to not completely obliterate the prospect of being friends with Connor. Yes!

Connor slides a piece of paper over to me. “That’s mine. We could meet somewhere after school today if you can?” 

“My-My mom’s working, so I can, yeah. You-You could come over to my place if you want?” I suggest. Hallelujah! A full two sentences! Not stutter-free, but I’ll work on that. At least I don’t sound like some mute alien. 

“That works,” Connor says. 

The rest of class is spent going over our project, and I’m on Cloud 9. 

Connor  
This girl’s a little strange, but like her. She’s cute: soft features, dark blonde hair, super fucking blue eyes, not that I’m “allowed” to notice, because I have a *dun dun dun* boyfriend! Jared. I’m 150% certain the only reason we’re still together is that without each other we’d have no one to have sex with. 

I remember talking to my last therapist about my coping skills. I only said reading, but that’s because the rest she would’ve therapized the shit out of, because my list is, in order of need, as follows:   
Reading (first, always; the only thing that makes me feel real, and authentic, and here)   
Drugs (mostly weed, but I’ve tried nastier shit before)   
Alcohol (Larry’s bourbon stash and nicked wine)   
Sex. 

Sex is last and always will be because I don’t really like it. I hate anything that involves my body: getting dressed, showering, sports, but most of all sex. I only do it because it’s a mind-number and a body-number, and I need both. 

One of the therapists (Dr. Adam? Alex?) said I engage in all these “reckless behaviors” in an attempt to get away from my body. I think she’s right, but (of course) I never told her. I hate my body. That’s why I’m always in huge hoodies. If I could strip away my body and be a skeleton/body-less soul forever, I would. But I can’t. So here I am, stuck in this stupid fucking skin prison that just isn’t right. 

Fuck everything. 

The only eventful thing the whole school day is my encounter with Evelyn, but I have to cancel our after-school plans so I can go home and hide. I walk home, answering Mom with a “fucking horrible” when she asks how my day was. Larry and Zoe are both home, but they aren’t worth greeting. I walk upstairs to my room and open my closet, where they never think to check for me. I sit down inside, pull on my headphones and turn the noise canceling to high, and grab out my well-worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray and read. I let my eyes swim in Oscar Wilde’s prose, let it eat me, let it be the only thing I think about. 

I’m thirty pages in before I realize I’m crying. 

Evelyn  
Connor comes up to me at my locker after sixth hour. “Sorry, I can’t hang out this afternoon.” 

I turn around, looking at Connor. “Wait-” 

I have no idea what I’m planning to say, but before I can say it, Connor turns around, giving a half-hearted wave. “Maybe tomorrow. Bye.” 

“Bye…” I watch him walk off until he’s lost in the crowd of students. I can feel the sadness emanating off of him in waves. He has a big, sad secret, I can tell. 

Just like me. 

I take the bus home and walk inside, preheating the oven so that I can make my pizza. One of the only perks of having a mom who works all the time is that I get to have dinner whenever I want, meaning 4:30. I walk to the living room and plop down on the soda, putting my backpack next to me and turning on Cartoon Network. I start on my homework, grateful for something to do. The oven beeps and I put in the pizza, rethinking the day. Better than most, but still riddled with bad luck: Connor canceling our plan for unknown reasons, getting called on in Math and practically dying, Mom announcing that she has to work tomorrow, despite promises I almost believed about her being able to be here. 

I sigh and sit back down, taking a break from my homework until I can have food. At least I actually talked to Connor. And he said we could maybe meet up tomorrow, so not everything was sucky. I might be getting a little less people-allergic. 

Soon, the stove timer goes off and I take out the pizza, putting three slices on a plate and walking back to the living room. I dig in and get back to my math homework, sighing. I wish things could be… easy. I guess no one wants things to be hard, but for me, life feels like Sisyphus’s hill; one minute I’m about to roll the boulder all the way to the top and be free, and the next it’s crushing me. 

Dr. Longsworth loves my mythology references because they “put her in the story”, she says. I told her about the Sisyphus thing and she didn’t even respond. She typed something on her laptop and changed the subject. I don’t even think she thinks she can help me, because I’m practically helpless. Sure, therapy and meds help some, but I’m never going to stop being so… me. Even when I’m feeling good, life somehow finds a way to come back and slap me in the face. Every. Time. 

I finish my homework and my pizza, deciding it’s time to go to my room. I walk to my bedroom and open the door, the familiar scenery the one thing I can count on. My pansexual flag hangs proudly on the wall next to the bulletin board covered in pictures of trees I took at the park or printed out online, along with all of the “inspirational quotes” coloring sheets Dr. Longsworth has sent me home with. My bonsai (a gift from Mom for my 15th birthday) sits on my dresser, and my bed next to it. I collapse onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, painted (with much difficulty) a bright blue with white, fluffy clouds. I decided I didn’t want to stare at boring white anymore, so I saved up and bought paint, spending a whole weekend painting the ceiling and the walls. The rest of my room looks a little less childish, the lightest pastel blue you can imagine. It’s comforting, being enveloped in your favorite color every time you walk into a room. My comforter’s blue too; I’ve had the same one since I was little, and it’s practically threadbare and the stuffing’s coming out in places, but I still love it. 

I lay and absorb the moment, letting it even out my breathing and give me calm. During one of my first sessions with Dr. Longsworth, she told me to make a list of the things I loved, and this room was one of them. It’s been with me through everything; Mom and Dad’s divorce, my people-allergy development, anxiety attacks, my first kiss (a cute girl in sixth grade; it didn’t lead to anything except awkwardness, and has thus been my only kiss), birthdays and sleepovers. Everything. I can’t imagine leaving, which is why I always try to change the subject when Mom mentions college. Truth is, I don’t want to go. Mom says that it’ll give me a chance to reinvent myself, but I’m just not… ready. I know I still have a year, but it feels like a ticking time bomb. I’ll have to move out, into an apartment or a dorm, get a job, go to classes, meet new people who don’t know that I’m allergic to them. Why? I know I have to be an adult someday, but why does that have to mean all that? Can’t I just get a little apartment in California near the redwoods (the most gorgeous trees ever) and write for a living and stay alone but happy? That’s what I want. People are too much effort. 

I let my eyes close and focus on my breathing, trying to calm myself back down again. Dr. Longsworth tells me adulthood can be that but that it’ll never be as glamorous as the life college and tons of friends will give me. Which I don’t care about. I just want trees, art, and quiet. I’ve never cared for glamor, and I don’t think I ever will. I just want to be content with the life I have. 

Which I can’t be right now, because of a people-allergy and the inability to distance myself from others and the fact that I’ll probably have to go to college and the fact that I want to talk to people. I really, really do, but I can’t. 

Why?


End file.
